


Not Necessarily Star-Crossed

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Bickering, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M, Requited Love, Romeo and Juliet at the Superclásico, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 20:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17230910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: 2005-05-16.  Carlos gets an unexpected visitor in Sao Paolo.





	Not Necessarily Star-Crossed

Carlos thinks he has a good thing going, up until Javi shows up unannounced on his doorstep. He's on his way back from a trip to the local supermercado — as they're called in Brazil — so it's a small wonder he doesn't drop his bags at the sight of him.

"How the hell did you get here?" is the first thing he demands.

"Hitchhiking," Javi rolls his eyes. And then when Carlos gives him an incredulous look, "Obviously I flew, dipshit."

Carlos glares, too pissed-off to tease Javi over the loss of his composure, "Fuck off. How the hell did you even find me you goddamn stalker?"

"Your ugly mug is plastered on every rag from Rio to the Paraná," Javi shoots back, "Like it took any effort at all." He takes a bold step forward and tries to wrench the bundle of grocery bags out of Carlos' right hand. Carlos maintains his hold, hardening his glare.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"What do you think, dumbass?" Javi snorts, "I'm helping you carry back your groceries."

"Fuck off," Carlos repeats, pulling his hand roughly back. He shoves Javi away with his shoulder and then remembers he still needs to unlock the front door. Damn doubled-up security courtesy of paranoid managers. So of course Javi picks up all six bags while Carlos is still fumbling with the keys.

"Holy shit this is heavy," Javi notes, "Are you _trying_ to bulk up?"

"It's not for me," Carlos snarls, finally finding the damn keys.

"What do you mean?" Javi asks. His voice is painfully quiet and Carlos feels the temperature drop five degrees.

"Shut up," Carlos answers, finally opening the door. He retrieves his key, shoves it into his front pocket, and then makes to take back the groceries. Javi ignores him in favor of shoving past and making his way up the stairs.

"What the — " Carlos starts. "Get back here, you asshole!"

"You're a shitty fucking host, Tévez," Javi calls from the second floor. "Making your guest wait in front of your door like this."

Javi is lucky Carlos doesn't have any of the bags. He would've surely brained him with the cantaloupe otherwise. As it is, he has to busy himself with re-locking the front door before taking the stairs two at time. Javi is waiting for him on the second floor — which begs the question, how did he find out Carlos' exact address? — tapping his foot impatiently, like he did when Carlos was fumbling with their card key in the hotel room in Athens.

"You're not staying the night," Carlos says, even as he's unlocking the door to the apartment and grudgingly letting Javi in.

"We'll see," is all Javi says. He sets down the bags and Carlos busies himself putting the groceries away. Instead of helping, like Carlos is damn sure he was taught to do, Javi instead snoops around the two bedroom apartment. He finishes his inspection as Carlos is putting the pasta away, walking up to the kitchen counter and resting his palms against the imitation marble.

"So," Javi starts, letting out a long breath, "What the fuck is this all about?"

"What the hell?" Carlos retorts, getting more and more pissed-off at the situation. "You barge in here like you own the place and you're asking _me_ what the hell's up?"

"Yes," Javi answers, like there's nothing wrong with that. And who knows? Maybe in his fucked-up excuse for a conscience, there _was_ nothing wrong with that.

"Fuck you," Carlos says. He gets out of the kitchen the other way and plops himself down in the recliner. Javi follows him, sitting down on the adjacent couch.

"Do you want to?" Javi asks, point-blank as usual.

Carlos blanches, because this is exactly the sort of shit he came to São Paolo to get away from.

"No, fuck," he scowls and combs his bangs from his eyes, shooting another glare at his unexpected guest. "What the hell is your problem, man?" he demands, "Just leave me alone."

"You think it's easy or fun for me?" Javi snaps back. Something in his tone makes Carlos look at him properly. More than finding his inner sailor, he looks ragged and frazzled — certainly more tired than a flight from Buenos Aires to São Paolo should warrant. "Fuck," Javi adds, combing his own hair back, "I missed a match just to come see you."

"Because you're a fucking idiot."

"So what?" Javi looks at him, accusing, "It's done? Over?"

Carlos swallows and nods. "It's _been_ over," he stresses. "It was over before it began."

"Bullshit," Javi sneers. "You were the one that came on to me in November."

"You couldn't stop staring!"

"And so what if I couldn't?" Javi's fists are clenched and there's a vein that looks fit to pop above his eyebrow.

"So you're a fucking idiot," Carlos repeats, heaving a sigh and looking away. He hates how goddamn kissable Javi looks, even when he's throwing a fit. And then, to drive the point home, he repeats the truth he's always known: "It was over before it even began. We both knew it."

"If that's true," Javi counters, "Then why come _here_?" He gestures to the apartment but Carlos understands.

He swallows a second time, gaze flitting to the french windows which overlook the bustling metropolis. It's so similar to Buenos Aires, yet completely foreign at the same time.

"It was time for a change," he says, "Corinthians were willing to pay more so..."

"Bullshit," Javi sneers. "You love the Juniors, everyone knows that."

In lieu of a response, Carlos crosses his arms and glares at him. And so the two of them stay like that, with the tension so thick, Carlos feels he might drown. And still, he keeps his peace, because he has nothing to say. What the hell is there to say? They had a fast fling that was all sorts of fucked-up and now it seemed like feelings had come into play. Ignoring the fact they were both guys and firstborn sons at that, there was the whole playing for opposite Superclásico teams which, as any Argentinian fan could attest to, was enough to ruin marriages and even families.

To Carlos' surprise, Javi speaks first.

"I miss you," he says without making eye contact. The plaintiveness in his tone makes Carlos flinch. "I miss you so fucking much."

It's Carlos' turn to clench his fists then. They had never really spoken about it, it was a lot of tumbling and tussling and mutual knowledge of the reality of things. Handjobs and blowjobs between teammates were fine; skirting around the 'l'-word when the most attractive women in the planet were throwing themselves at you was not.

"What does it matter?" he asks, but his voice is too broken to be contrarian.

"Won't you come back?" Javi asks.

"No," Carlos shakes his head, utterly certain of this. "November was a close enough call."

Indeed, both their clubs had to pay a lot of hush money to keep a photograph from being published of the two of them leaving the locker rooms together. They weren't even holding hands, much less kissing, but the idea of a striker from the Juniors hanging out with a midfielder from River Plate — right after a game — was just pure anathema. The fans of both teams would have been frothing.

Javi sighs and Carlos tilts his head to look at him. Javi's lips are pressed together in a fine line, like the ref has just given him a yellow card or awarded Carlos' team a penalty and he wants to chew the fucker out but he knows better than to try. See, Javi doesn't get red cards. He's a smooth operator, through and through.

"If you won't come back," Javi starts, digging his fingers into the sofa, "Then I'll come here."

This gets Carlos' attention.

"What?" he asks, 100% certain he did not hear correctly.

"You heard me," Javi snaps, glaring at him. "I'll transfer here. To Corinthians. Next season."

Carlos blanches, mentally flailing. "What the fuck are you going on about?" he demands.

"Look," Javi pushes his hair back again, "I like you. I like you enough that it's driving me crazy. So of course I want to play on the same team as you." He stands up and goes over to Carlos, dropping out of the sky and into his lap. Carlos freezes up as Javi makes himself comfortable.

"You are insane," Carlos says. He kisses Javi back anyways.

"Maybe," Javi laughs, and Carlos joins along. And then, after they've kissed one another breathless, he pulls back and looks Carlos in the eye and asks: "So will you have me?"

"In São Paolo?"

"Yes."

Carlos throws his head back laughing. He recovers within seconds, grabbing Javi by the sides of his head and pulling him close for a searing kiss.

"Yes," Carlos answers. "And for the record, I missed you too, you fucking asshole."


End file.
